In the first place, the white people all looked sick to him—­unhealthy, bleached.  Then, try as he would, he could not accustom his feet to the stiff leather shoes he was induced to wear.  One morning his buckskin coat was missing, and in its place was a nice blue cloth one with gleaming golden buttons.  He hated it, but he had to wear it.  Then his green blanket disappeared; a warm, heavy overcoat in its place.  Then his fringed buckskin “chaps” went; in their place a pair of dreadful grey cloth trousers.  Little Wolf-Willow made no comment, but he kept his eyes and ears open, and mastered a few important words of English, which, however, he kept to himself—­as yet.  And then, one day, when he had worn these hated clothes for a whole month, the superintendent who had brought him away from his father’s tepee sent for him to come to his little office.  The boy went.  The superintendent was so kind and so gentle, and his smile was so true, that the boy had grown somewhat attached to him, so, without fear of anything in the world, the little Cree scholar slipped noiselessly into the room.

“Ah, Little Wolf-Willow,” said the superintendent, kindly, “I notice that you are beginning to understand a little English already.”  The boy smiled, and nodded slightly.  “You are very quick and smart, my boy, quick as a lynx, smart as a fox.  Now tell me, are you happy here?  Do you like the school?” continued Mr. Enderby.

There was a brief silence, then a direct, straight look from the small Cree eyes, and the words, “I like you—­me.”

Mr. Enderby smiled.  “That’s good; I like you, too, Little Wolf-Willow.  Now tell me, do you like your new clothes?”

“No good,” said the boy.

Mr. Enderby looked grave.  “But, my boy, that is what you must wear if you are to be educated.  Do you know what the word ‘education’ means?  Have you ever heard the teachers or boys here use it?”

“White man, English,” came the quick reply.

“That’s it; you have described it exactly.  To become educated you must try and wear and do what the white people do—­like the English, as you say,” Mr. Enderby went on.  “Now what about your hair?  White men don’t wear long hair, and you see all the Cree boys in the school have let me cut their hair.  Wouldn’t you like to be like them?”

“No; hair good,” said the boy.

“Well, how about a ‘white’ name?” asked Mr. Enderby.  “The other boys have taken them.  Wouldn’t you like me to call you John?  I’d like to.”

“Me Wolf-Willow, same grandfather,” came in tones of pronounced decision.

“Very well, Little Wolf-Willow, you must do as you like, you know; but you said when you came in that you liked me, and I like you very much.  Perhaps some day you will do these things to please me.”  Then Mr. Enderby added softly to himself, “It will all come in time.  It is pretty hard to ask any boy to give up his language, his clothes, his customs, his old-time way of living, his name, even the church of his fathers.  I must have patience, patience?”